


Not in the Next Life

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e20 What Is and What Should Never Be, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:26:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He looked up to where Dean was clearly inches away from kicking the TV, and felt a rush of misty-eyed affection Dean would probably punch him for. Dean had emerged from a cloud of steam dressed in gray sweats and a ratty blue t-shirt of Sam’s. Now standing in front of the TV with a towel around his neck and an uncapped beer in his hand, who knew this would be the guy to resist, crack, and kill an opiate so ancient and evil that an entire monastery of Jain monks were once believed to have been enslaved by it?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not in the Next Life

**Author's Note:**

> Dean has a nasty cough and a fever, but it's post- _What Is and What Should Never Be_ , so I gave the poor guy some issues too.
> 
> Beta'd by Ancasta.

It was a weekend off in some salty fishing town south of Stonington courtesy of a grateful bartender, who still had a bar and a daughter to be grateful for thanks to holes and bags of herbs punched into his walls by Sam and Dean. The poltergeist had taken its time though, slamming Dean into a whole bunch of furniture before it could be winked out.

So when the father babbled his gratitude and offered use of a small weekend cottage as payment in kind, Dean shook a sore head, while Sam glared at him and snatched up the keys with a thank you and a how do we get there before Dean could get a word out.

Dean held his wrenched shoulder and griped about “fucking charity” all the way there while Sam drove and ignored him. Dean made even louder noises when they reached the place—cottage was seriously pushing it, it was a fishing cabin for fuck’s sake. There was a note on the doorstep, weighted down by one of the many smooth, gray stones strewn across the small road from the rocky shore just beyond it. The note was from someone called Abe, who had the keys, the one store, and a coat hook waiting for them – or something. Abe’s penmanship was just one more thing for Dean to roll his eyes and bitch about.

Sam was tempted to try and leave his brother sitting on the step and go visit Abe by himself. Dean was just not looking so good, and he hadn’t been for a while, even before the poltergeist. His skin was pale, his eyes a little glassy, and Sam didn’t think it was coincidence that Dean had seemed the more vulnerable target for the poltergeist to throw around. Still, whatever was going on with his brother—and Sam actually found himself wishing for something finite like a bug—Dean wasn’t the only one stressing about doing things apart these days.

Ever since the djinn had stolen Dean, separation anxiety didn’t even begin to cover it for Sam. He’d never known such blind, bone-gnawing dread as he had during those three days and nights when nothing and no one had led him to a filthy warehouse until almost too late. And as for Dean, Sam figured not even their dad’s death had fucked with his brother’s head this much. When Dean wasn't staring into space and being weirdly still, he was tired, pissy, and pushing food around his plate for the first time in living memory. And perhaps the surest sign that something was wrong was the most frustrating one; Dean hadn’t touched Sam in bed since it happened.

So Sam chewed his lip, regarded the top of his brother’s head, and then tapped Dean's booted foot with his own.

"You wanna wait here while I go get the keys and see what a coat hook really is?"

Dean shook his head, coughed, but made no move to either stand or even look up. Sam took a deep breath, not knowing whether to pat him or smack him. So he jammed his hands in his pockets instead. He moved off, unsurprised to hear Dean get to his feet and come after him a second later. He turned his face into the sharp sea breeze and thought about lengthening his stride. He didn’t want to lose his temper, so maybe it would be better to remove himself from temptation for a while. Sympathy and only-family-left aside, if he got one more monosyllabic grunt out of Dean that day, a little bit of fratricide might be on the horizon.

They’d been walking for less than a minute when Dean started coughing behind him. It didn’t sound bad but it didn’t sound good either.

“Nice sunset, huh?” Sam said, turning his head. It really was, and coming up behind him Dean looked chiseled and perfect in the faint pink hues of it. The last of Sam’s frustration fell away in a thrill of pride and pleasure Dean could still surprise out of him, even after all the years he’d spent alongside that face and those cheekbones. Dean caught up and Sam thought about kissing him, thought about just framing his face there on the cliff top and reclaiming what was his, what was theirs. Dean was letting the djinn eat away at too much these days. But his brother looked solemn, drawn, and in no mood for any of Sam’s Ingrid Bergman fantasies. So he turned forward again and simply set about keeping his strides smaller next to Dean’s. He got the grunt he expected when he nudged Dean and smiled at the horizon out to the right of them, but at least he also got to keep his hand in the small of Dean’s back as they continued walking.

Abe turned out to be the local store owner, handyman, caretaker, and general go-to guy, complete with leathery features, a whiskery handlebar mustache, and an accent Sam had to lip read to understand. As for the note, a coat hook turned out to be a fishing pole, complete with refrigerated bait, which he handed to a horrified Dean and told them they were welcome to use for the length of their stay.

“Thanks,” said Sam, stepping in quickly to take it before Dean shoved it to the floor. Neither of them had fished a day in their lives, and as a thank-you it was up there with a box of walnuts a grateful vegan had bestowed upon them once. But it was still a thank-you, and Sam was not going to have Dean ruin it.

Yet another thank-you sat on the counter, in the form of a very full bag of groceries. Once pointed out, Sam could feel the heat of Dean’s indignation and what the fuck weirdness bristling behind him, and even Sam’s own back stiffened a little at such blatant charity.

Abe gestured at one of the bags. “Do not know what you boys done for Jake, but I ain’t never heard the man sing praises like that. I was to give you the thickest steaks I had. Well, you could keep a door in a storm open with those beauties.”

Sam looked at Dean, whose mouth had snapped firmly shut. Dean see-sawed his head slightly in a _whatever_ gesture and turned away. Sam suppressed a grin. _Steaks. So yeah, whatever._

Sam said another thank you, tucked the cabin keys in his pocket, and nodded as Abe told him something about either a terminator or hot water. Dean had already grabbed the bag with the steaks and walked out. So Sam adjusted his grip on the pole and the bait, and headed out after him.

 

“See, Sammy, what’d I tell you? Cottage my ass, it’s a fucking cabin. And that’s a shitty black and white TV, I’ll bet.”

Sam nudged him further in and looked around. True, it was basically one large room wide, but it looked clean and warm rather than worn and run down. The rustic shine of light-colored wood was everywhere, and rugs and throws in subdued home-made knits gave the whole place the comforting air of a much loved retreat. They were standing in a small living space, which had an overstuffed sofa and a well-stocked fireplace about four feet in front of it. Off to the left was an alcove containing two good sized beds side by side, and a door which presumably led to the bathroom. And then straight ahead and separated from the beds by a breakfast bar piled high with magazines and paperbacks, was a small kitchen with a single countertop and a large humming fridge.

Sam opened his mouth to say something about not looking gift cabins in the mouth, but Dean was already crouched down and scowling at the small TV next to the fireplace, so Sam left him to it and went to bring in their duffels.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Sam found a pan and threw the steaks on. Dean zapped half-baked bread rolls in an ancient-looking microwave, slathered on a ton of butter Sam decided not to bug him about, and then actually managed to smile appreciatively when the bottom of the bag turned up a bottle of Tabasco sauce.

“Man after your own heart,” said Sam.

Dean gave him the finger. Then he sat down at the small square table at the edge of the kitchen area and almost ate like he was hungry.

 

“I don’t suppose there was something like a fully baked pie in Jake’s generosity? Or flour and shit, because, y’know, we could put that apron on you and you could—”

Sam caught a seated Dean full in the face with a dishcloth. “Hey, do not let these sudsy hands fool you. I am not the girl here. Bake your own goddamn pie. And get your boots off my chair, Dean.”

“God, what a wife. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Dean slid his boots off and Sam saw him wince when his left foot hit the floor. Come to think of it, Dean had kept his left hand pretty much in his lap for most of the meal, chewing the steak off a fork in his right after he’d roughly sawed it into chunks. Sam had rolled his eyes and made a caveman crack, but maybe it was Dean being Dean about pain this time and not about a juicy steak.

Sam dried his hands, back still towards Dean and thought about how to play it. He hated that he had to keep doing that. Before that fucking warehouse, he could have simply yanked Dean’s shirt off, stitched him and bitched him (‘a Sammy special’, as Dean liked to call that particular combo), and then kept him under a hot shower until both of them felt better.

“Um...why don’t you take first shower, Dean? I didn’t use much hot water.”

“Nah, I’m good. You take it.”

“Dean...”

“What?”

Sam bit his lip and turned round. Dean was doing his best to look wide-eyed and innocent. A look he never really managed at the best of times. “Just...just take first shower, man. I can see you’re hurting so stop pretending you’re not.”

“What hurting? Skanky-ass spirit barely fucking touched—”

A series of harsh coughs cut off whatever bravado was trying to come out, and had Sam hastily filling a glass of water. He forced it into Dean’s hands even as Dean was rocking back and trying to croak out ‘’m fine’.

Sam crouched down next to his chair and refused to be batted away. He curled his right palm around Dean’s neck, and was unsurprised at the heat he felt there.

“Dude, you are not fine. You’re running a fever, you can hardly lift your left arm, and I need to check the cut on your shoulder again. So please, for once in your life, will you stop being a stubborn asshole, and go and take the first shower?”

Sam was prepared for Dean to jerk out of his grip. He was not prepared for Dean to slam forward into Sam and knock him off balance. He sat down hard in an awkward sprawl on the floor and gaped up at Dean, who promptly scraped back the chair and shot to his feet.

“Why you gotta act so fucking superior all the time, Sam? Like I’m shit on your shoe or something. You think a fancy college made you better than me?”

His voice cracked harshly as he spoke, but the anger and hurt was positively vibrating off him.

“Dean, I—”

But Dean was gone, muttering and slamming his way into the bathroom.

Sam stayed where he was for a few seconds, stunned and confused by the hurricane he’d unwittingly unleashed. What the...? He slowly got to his feet and stared at the closed bathroom door. Then he got a beer out of the fridge and took a long, long pull as he heard the hot water clank and gurgle its way through the pipes.

Fancy college? Stanford almost never came up between them anymore, and Sam was just concerned. God, no way he thought he was better than Dean, not for a second, he wasn’t—

Sam put the bottle down slowly on the counter.

No, _he_ wasn’t, and _he_ didn’t.

But what about the other Sam? The one who hadn’t gotten along with his older brother? The one who sounded like a total dick from the little Dean had said. That Sam, with his fancy sports car and his hands-off-my-girlfriend attitude? _That_ Sam had most definitely thought himself better than Dean.

Which was fucking insane because that Sam did not exist. Never had, not outside of a drug-bled hallucination.

Sam rubbed the cold beer bottle across his forehead. The fallout from this djinn crap was starting to set his teeth on edge. He knew with terrible clarity that Dean’s recent distance and moods had nothing to do with what Dean himself had glimpsed and lost, and everything to do with what he thought had been ripped from Sam. He would catch Dean staring sometimes, letting his gaze linger a beat too long on Sam’s face or profile. And then Dean’s jaw would clench and he would look away, and nothing Sam said or did could get that gaze back for a while.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and thought about storming into the bathroom to tell Dean he was an idiot. But there were things to consider. One, Dean might have locked himself in, and two, Sam really didn’t want to add fuel to Dean’s delusional fire by banging on a door and yelling at him.

Better to leave Dean to it. They had at least two full hunt and rent-free days ahead of them – neither Jake nor Abe had been very specific about when they were expected to vacate the place. So Sam would let Dean get a good night’s rest.

And then he’d confront the hell out of him.

Sam made sure he was busy when Dean came out of the shower. He wanted his eyes and attention elsewhere so Dean would have no cause to stare at the walls and avoid him. He had his laptop open at the kitchen table. There was no wireless connection but that didn’t matter – he had a dozen tabs on djinns he’d downloaded and not had the time to go through. So far he was lucking out on survivor stories, though. Which yeah, trust his tenacious self-stabbing brother to be the first to work that all out.

“Fuckin’ thing!”

He looked up to where Dean was clearly inches away from kicking the TV, and felt a rush of misty-eyed affection Dean would probably punch him for. Dean had emerged from a cloud of steam dressed in gray sweats and a ratty blue t-shirt of Sam’s. Now standing in front of the TV with a towel around his neck and an uncapped beer in his hand, who knew this would be the guy to resist, crack, and kill an opiate so ancient and evil that an entire monastery of Jain monks were once believed to have been enslaved by it?

“Black and white. Jesus!”

A response wasn’t really required, and while Dean’s voice still sounded rough, he wasn’t coughing. Sam went back to his laptop.

 

“Ch’doin’, Sam?” From the sofa, about twenty minutes later.

“Nothin’. What’re you watching?”

“Married With Children. It’s the one where he goes to Hooters and pees on the dog.”

It was a peace offering and they both knew it.

Sam shut the laptop and stood up, relieved. “Doesn’t he go to Hooters and like, pee on the dog in every episode?”

“Shut up, you know you love it.” Dean said, coughing again.

“Yeah, okay. Be there in a sec.”

He walked over a few minutes later and handed Dean a mug.

Dean sniffed the air warily. He made no move to take it.

“Arsenic, Dean, heated up just right.” Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s hot chocolate.”

Dean’s face brightened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. There was milk in the bag, and I found some cocoa mix in the cupboard. Come on, take it.”

“Awesome.”

It was a simple pleasure, but the nicest Sam had had in a while; to sit side by side with his brother, stocking feet up on the coffee table, and drink a hot chocolate in front of a rather snowy Al Bundy.

“How’s your shoulder?” Sam didn’t take his eyes off the TV, just carried on sipping.

Neither did Dean. “It’s fine.”

“Can I see?”

A long, measured look came his way. “Sure,” said Dean.

And it was fine. Sam waited until Dean put his mug down and then inched over and pulled the neck of Dean’s t-shirt down and to the left. The skin around the two inch slice had welted up, and it looked sore, but when Sam touched the surrounding area nothing seemed to be infected. Dean had actually been right in his surly get-the-fuck-off-me-I’m-fine assessment. It hadn’t needed stitches.

Sam let the t-shirt ride back up, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away. Dean’s skin was finally cool from his shower, and Dean may have had his eyes front on the idiocies of Al Bundy, but Sam could tell from the set of his shoulders and his oh-so-slow and steady breathing that every molecule of Dean’s being knew where Sam was. So Sam leaned forward the last inch and kissed the back of Dean’s neck.

“Sam...”

Barely a whisper, so Sam did it again. And again. And then he moved up and around, shifting closer on the sofa until he could mouth his way along the right side of Dean’s jaw. Dean turned his head; a fraction, but he turned it, and Sam was there, his own mouth open and ready. Dean’s lips were chocolate-warm and when Sam took a chance and deepened the kiss, he tasted cinnamon and knew it would forever get him hard from this day forward. Especially when Dean groaned and widened his jaw.

Sam wanted Dean in his lap, or he wanted to be in Dean’s lap. He didn’t really care, but he did care not to break the kiss, which was sweet and make-out heavy in a way it hadn’t been for a long time.

So he put his hands on Dean to make it happen. The left one flat on Dean’s chest, the right curled around his neck. And right then the heat hit him, a fraction before Dean shivered and pulled back.

It still took Sam a second or two to open his eyes and draw back enough to focus. Dean’s eyes were closed and his teeth had pulled in his bottom lip on a sharp hiss.

“Dean?” Another shiver.

“Off me, Sam.” It was too cracked and husky for a growl, but the sentiment was clear.

Damn. So much for a restorative shower.

Sam scrambled to his feet, a little clumsy and wary at the sudden shift in mood, yet again. He looked down at his brother, who was levering himself off the sofa, two spots of high color staining a very pale face. “Um...you want Tylenol or something?” He offered. “Or I could make you another hot chocolate, maybe? If your throat—”

“No! Jesus, Sam. Stop—” Dean had to stop himself when a cough rattled through. He sucked in an uneven breath and elbowed Sam out the way as he walked away from the sofa. “—fuckin’ hovering and pawing at me. It’s nothing, just let me have some goddamn space, will you?”

“Yeah, and fuck you very much, too, Dean. Jesus, I forget how much of a bitch you are when you’re sick.”

Dean turned mid-stride toward the bathroom and almost wobbled. “Yeah? Well, it takes one to know one!”

Sam clenched his fists and looked away, fighting for calm. Sick or not, Dean was going to get sat on and talked to ahead of time if he continued with this crap.

The air was heavy and sour, canned laughter now wildly inappropriate in the background, with the cabin suddenly smaller than any motel room.

Sam ground his teeth, glared in the vague direction of the kitchen, and stood his ground. He didn’t have to wait long. Dean rubbed his face, his hair–all classic tells—and sighed.

“Look, Sammy...” Dean started, quieter and raw, as if all the spit and temper had run out of him. “It’s better to keep things like this. What with me being full of germs and shit, just...just _don’t_. Okay? Stay the fuck away. Hell, it’s probably for—”

Sam’s head snapped back around and he took a step toward his brother before he’d even thought about it. “I swear, if you say ‘for the best,’ Dean. If you say that me not touching you or caring about you is ‘probably for the best,’ I will hit you. I don’t care how sick you are.”

And like that, the spit and temper flared back.

“Fine. I won’t say it.”

Dean turned on his heel and threw his hands in the air as he stomped off towards the bathroom. “I’ll just think it...”

He slammed the door behind him.

“...very fucking loudly!”

The last was punctuated by a horrible hacking cough, and Sam wanted it to serve him right; he really, really did. But as he listened to Dean’s muffled wheezing and cursing, all he really wanted to do was march in there, cuff him upside the head a few times, and then grab on and hold him, still and quiet until they could both breathe more easily.

At around three o’clock in the morning, Sam learned once again that he should be careful what he wished for.

He blinked awake quickly, sure that something had brought him out of sleep, but not immediately sure what that something might be. Turning his head, he could see Dean as a vague lump under the covers in the other bed to his right. And as unnervingly dark as it was in the cabin, Sam would bet money he was looking at the line of Dean’s back, turned towards him in a kind of sub-conscious huff. Sam hadn’t even attempted any more conversation after Dean had emerged from the bathroom. He’d just sat on the sofa with the laptop and bitten his lip hard when he’d heard Dean shuffle, sniff, and occasionally cough behind him. Sam had padded over to look before he’d turned in, though, pulling the covers high around Dean, and trying not to find him adorable when he was asleep and oblivious in his leave-me-the-fuck-alone position. Which was on his front with his arms scrunched around two pillows, face mashed into the corner of one of them, and his left hand undoubtedly smoothed out on a knife hilt. The Winchester version of a security blanket, Sam supposed. He’d been snoring, too, something Dean rarely did, and which did not bode well for the state of his sinuses the next day. So the last thing Sam had done, before climbing into the safety of the other bed, was put a toilet paper roll and a glass of water on Dean’s bedside table. That way, he figured, if the guy was going to be an asshole, at least he could be a hydrated, hygienic asshole.

Sam listened carefully in the quiet and couldn’t hear any signs of blocked breathing from Dean, so he relaxed and rubbed his eyes. Shit, now he needed to pee. Perhaps that had woken him.

He got up slowly, wary of not really remembering where things were in the dark. He fumbled for the switch to a lamp he remembered was somewhere on the breakfast bar and used its relatively soft glow to navigate his way to the bathroom. The wood and the tiles were cold on his bare feet and he was in a hurry to get back to his own bed when he glanced down at Dean on the way past.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Dean was _moving_. And not just Dean, either. The entire bed seemed to be vibrating right along with him, like something out of _The Exorcist_. He was not a Winchester for nothing, and it took Sam a second or two to realize this wasn’t actually something demonic in nature.

“Dean?” He crouched down by the bed, to where his brother lay on his side facing him. Dean had his eyes shut and his teeth were tightly holding in his bottom lip.

“What?” It came out as a rasp, accompanied by another shudder.

Shit. Dean’s face was glassy white and his eyes were still squeezed shut. Sam put a hand on Dean’s cheek and his heart sank.

“Oh man, you’re burning up.”

“’M freezin’. Tol’ you. Fuh-fuckin’ cabin.” And Dean looked truly pathetic as he tried to scowl, shiver, and shrink back into his sheets and blanket at the same time.

Sam sighed. “Move.”

Dean finally opened his eyes fully.

“Wha...?”

Sam consciously gentled his voice. “Over. Move over, Dean.” He put his right knee up on the bed and his hand on Dean’s left shoulder to help make his point. Dean scowled and muttered but complied, and Sam climbed on. He stretched out on his left side and then just hauled his brother in, covers and all. For good measure he also threw his right leg over both of Dean’s and pressed the back of Dean’s sweat cool head into his shoulder. Then he simply held on while Dean jittered and jived against him, wincing when he heard Dean’s teeth chatter and his breath hiss in and out. No wonder he hadn’t heard any blocked breathing, Dean had been suffering in rhythmic silence and keeping this locked in like the stubborn asshole he always was about illness and weakness.

It took about five minutes for the shuddering to ease off to shorter bursts. Sam had taken to stroking up and down Dean’s back in the meantime. Wide sweeps of his palms Dean had no strength or sass to resist.

He stilled his hands, sure his brother had said something, but not sure what.

“Could...could’ve just given me another blanket, you know.”

Sam resumed his stroking, digging the heel of his right hand in a little. “Yeah, but I am way hotter than a blanket.”

Dean snortcoughsniffed into Sam’s neck at that, and Sam risked pressing his lips to the top of Dean’s head and holding him a little tighter.

Silence for a while, then a sigh and a cough tickled Sam’s throat. “Feel crap, Sammy.”

Sam swallowed. “Hey, I got you.”

“‘Kay...” And with that Dean’s breathing started evening out as he slowly but surely went back to sleep, numbing Sam’s left arm in about five minutes. Dean’s sweat soaked hair was also not the most pleasant thing to have under his nose. But Sam knew this was not going to last. Already the dry heat was building for the second cycle of whatever flu-post-djinn thing this was, and pretty soon Dean was going to get to kicking off covers and younger brothers.

So for now...

Sam reached down and took out Dean’s left arm from where it was awkwardly scrunched up between them. He stretched it across his own body and held his breath as Dean resettled, and then felt him open and relax his fingers around Sam’s right side.

Yeah, for now Sam was exactly where he needed to be.

It lasted an hour.

“Gotta take a knife, Sammy!”

“Yeah, Dean. Just...shit! Stay with me, okay?”

The dry heat of a truly high fever was bringing out the most awful delirium. Stuff about trees and popsicles, some girl called Brenda, a black dog... and now knives. Sam had been hanging on to a flailing Dean ever since his brother had swung out and socked him out of an exhausted slump against the headboard. He wanted to get up, get him some medicine, maybe some cool water and a cloth, but he also didn’t want Dean to fall out of bed. So he braced himself and tried to pull Dean back against his chest, bracketing him in by hooking his own ankles over Dean’s. Dean’s response was to twist around and fist Sam’s t-shirt in both hands, eyes wild as he peered at him.

Sam tried to smile reassuringly. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t tell Jess.”

Sam’s heart tripped in his chest.

“I’m not a thief, Sam. ’S the only way, y’know? Can’t tell Jess.” Dean’s hands shook, squeezing Sam’s shirt a little tighter. His eyes were everywhere on Sam’s face. “She doesn’t like me. And she’s fucking beautiful, man.” To Sam’s horror, Dean’s voice cracked down to a whisper on the last and a single, fat tear spilled down his cheek.

“Dean. God, she doesn’t... It’s okay, man, please. It’s okay.”

But Dean was lost and not to be calmed.

“It’s Mom’s knife, but it’s the only way, Sammy. Sam Sam Sam.” Another tear, another fevered whisper, and holy shit that was Sam’s own heart breaking now, because he knew exactly where Dean’s fever had taken him.

“Dean...no. You’re not...you’re with me. In a cabin, remember? None of that’s real, man. You’re sick.”

But Dean didn’t want to be argued with. “It’s the only way, okay? You stay.” Dean relaxed his grip on Sam’s shirt to jab him in the chest. “You stay and...and have this. Have them. And I’ll go. Gotta go, Sammy. Sam. Right? Gotta go.” Sam found himself nodding, crying a little, and just trying to hug Dean in hard. He came–his fever was 100 plus and Sam had him by the neck and torso–but he jerked his head back at the last minute and twisted his legs to sit up more in the vee of Sam’s sprawl.

“Sam?”

“What?” Sam sniffed and rubbed at the shine on Dean’s cheeks with the sides of his palms. Dean blinked slowly and let him. His face was hot, but damp with something other than tears and Sam guessed another dose of sweat and chills was coming up.

Right on cue, Dean shivered. Wide-eyed and confused, he appeared to be trying to remember what he wanted to ask. Sam saw that as his own cue and just tugged him. The words when they finally came were damp and ticklish on Sam’s neck, and the only one he caught was ‘lawnmower’.

Sam pulled the covers up over them both and went back to smoothing long strokes down Dean’s back, trying to ease the tension before the shivers locked it in. “Enough,” he said into his hair. “Come on, Dean. You’re with me, okay? Crappy cabin, remember? Nothing needs mowing, dude. Shh, just relax, I got you.”

Miraculously, this time it worked. The shivering eased, the fever broke, and Sam held on as Dean sweated and slept, lawnmowers and knives gone for now.

 

For the next round, Sam geared up. As the sweat started to cool on Dean’s skin, he disentangled himself and went to the kitchen. He came back with bowl of warm water, a small towel, some of the rubbing alcohol Bobby always got for them, and a glass of cooler water for Dean to drink.

“Dean?”

“’M sleepin’, go ’way.” Dean coughed weakly and attempted to disappear into his pillow. That and the grumpiness were sure signs he was back in the here and now, for the time being at least. Sam wrinkled his nose at the state of both his brother and the bed and made a decision.

“I need you to get up for a second.” Dean swatted him. “Dude, it’s like you went swimming in the sheets. Up.” It took a couple of tries, and a lot of grumbling and staggering, but Sam managed to get Dean up, to the bathroom, and then into a change of t-shirt and sweats. The other bed was relatively fresh–Sam had only been in it an hour or two before he’d climbed into Dean’s—although Dean started shivering as soon as Sam got him in there.

Sam put the flat of his hand on Dean’s forehead. Which was about the only part of him visible. Dean had taken the Tylenol with a long drink and then tucked himself into the covers so tightly all Sam could see was the top of his head.

“I’m sick, Sam.”

“No shit, genius.”

But Sam felt the knot inside him give a little. Dean’s skin was still too hot, but it wasn’t the scorching heat of before, and already the shivers were starting to ease as he settled under the covers.

Sam went to stand and a hand shot out and latched on.

“Where you goin’?”

Sam tucked the hand back under the covers and gave in to the impulse to smooth back Dean’s hair. The fact that Dean closed his eyes and let him told him all he needed to know, so he did it again, unashamed by how much he loved that he got to do this sometimes. It bit like a bitch that Dean had to get this sick for those barriers to come down, but Sam never thought twice about making the most of it.

“I got an idea. You sleep as much as you can.” And then he rocked forward, kissed Dean on the cheek, and Dean didn’t even open his eyes. Just called him a girl and went to sleep.

This time around it was easier. Dean’s fever never got as high, and the delirium was little more than a few Latin curse words and a momentary conviction that Sam worked in a 7-11 and owed Dean a dollar thirty-five change. The Latin cursing may not even have been Dean being out of it, since Sam was busy assaulting Dean’s fever with every trick in the book this time around.

And the book, of course, was a Winchester one. Written by men without wives and boys without mothers, and written to do little more than patch up and ship out as fast as possible. So there were no feather-like kisses on foreheads, no nursery rhymes hummed and sung, and no chicken broth to be spoon fed just so. But there was still a patchwork of tips and treatments that had been put together over the years for Sam to draw on. Like Dean’s ones of Rocky Road for a sore throat and scrambled eggs for a stomach ache, for example. And there were others too, more hunter-like ones which John and Bobby had shrugged and tried out as the need had arisen over the years. Such as the one Sam was doing now, soaking a cloth in warm water spiked with rubbing alcohol. It brought a fever to the surface quicker and took away its sourness.

Dean stirred and Sam moved the cloth to his neck. He added a few more drops to the water, watched it turn milky, and then smoothed the small towel down Dean’s arms and hands this time, wrapping it round each wrist in turn and letting it linger. His skin was still heating it up too fast, though. Sam soaked and squeezed it out again, laid it across Dean’s forehead and then stood, cracking his back and stretching as he did so. He looked to where daylight was on its way through the drapes and realized how long he’d been doing this and how badly he wanted to just lie down next to Dean and close his eyes. Still, he had one last trick to try, something he’d seen Pastor Jim do once. It all depended on whether or not there was any ice in the ice-box...

 

“Dude.” Dean was shaking him.

Not fair, not fair at all. Sam had been asleep for like, five minutes.

“I have condoms all over me! Freezing-cold, water-filled condoms... Why the fuck are there condoms all over the bed, Sam?”

Sam opened one eye and squinted up. Dean was leaning over him looking appalled, pissed, and blessedly fever-free. Sam reached up to check and had his hand batted away with a growl. He smiled and closed his eye again.

“Cuz I was out of balloons. Now shut up, man. I need to sleep.”

 

When Sam woke up next, the room was flooded with daylight and the bed space next to him was empty. He sat up and looked around.

“Dean?”

“Over here.” A hand waved at him from above the back of the sofa, and he realized the TV was on.

Sam looked at his watch. 12:06. Wow.

He cleared his throat and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You okay?”

“Peachy.”

Dean’s voice sounded rough, but that was to be expected. Sam threw back the covers and got to his feet, yawning and stretching out the kinks yet again. He looked down at the bed and knew it was going to take a shitload of detergent at high temperatures to get it back to how they’d found it. But first things first... He padded over to the sofa.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Dean looked pale, tired, and he was huddled under the blanket from the bed he’d originally slept in. But his eyes were clear and he was currently munching his way through the last of an enormous bowl of Fruit Loops.

“Woke up starving,” he offered, looking a little sheepish. Like Sam was going to call him on the Fruit Loops. “And cold.” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Condoms, Sam? Really?”

Sam grinned. “Worked, didn’t it? Saw Pastor Jim do it once with ice-filled balloons. He had them all over this guy’s joints and his fever broke for good while he slept.”

Dean shook his head and waved his spoon at Sam in what he probably thought was a threatening gesture, but that, what with the bedhead and the blanket, came across more like a sulky twelve year old asking for seconds.

“We are never telling people about your improvisational skills here, Sam. Ever. This stays between you and me, you got that? You and me.”

Sam held his gaze, immeasurably settled and reassured.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You and me, Dean. Got it.”

“Sam...”

Dean sounded stricken, trapped by a moment he hadn’t intended and didn’t want.

So Sam turned away before Dean could ruin it.

 

And it didn’t really matter anyway, because Dean had plenty of other ways to ruin Sam’s relief. Dean sick and out of it was one thing, Dean better, but not well was a whole other ballgame. He refused to go back to bed, yet didn’t really have either the energy or the temperament to stay up. So he slumped on the sofa, glared at Sam and the TV in equal measure, and generally bitched and moped as much as his voice would let him. His fever was gone, but he’d been left with the sniffles and a scratchy throat, which clearly irritated the hell out of him and thereby gave him the right to irritate the hell out of Sam.

Sam did the only thing he could in such circumstances. He took a deep breath, offered Dean the promise of lunch, and fled.

He came back from yet another mystifying encounter with Abe with cheese, pickles, chunks of ham, advice about paddles or maybe ladles, and Spaghetti-Os. Dean would throw even the idea of soup across the room, but Spaghetti-Os were allowed and welcomed during recoveries from fevers. Sam remembered practically living off them when he’d been seven and gone through a winter with tonsils the size of golf balls.

Dean pretended not to be sleeping on the sofa when Sam got back. So Sam let him not wake up and flounder for the remote.

“You listen to Martha now, Dean. You never know when a bit of decoupage will come in handy.”

“Shut up. ’M not watching.”

“So you were sleeping then?”

“Yeah... No! Christ. Just...fucking feed me, will you?”

“Thought you weren’t sick anymore.”

“I’m the oldest. Feed me, bitch.”

Sam threw a packet of Oreos at him.

 

“Dean...”

Dean took his eyes off the TV to look at him. Sam had tried in vain to get Dean out of the pit of blankets on the sofa, and up to eat at the kitchen table. But Dean had started coughing and hacking up his protests. So Sam had ended up in the pit with him, sharing a blanket and, it had to be said, a couple of mighty fine sandwiches.

Dean raised his eyebrow in response, a piece of pickle dangling down his chin.

“It’s food, man. Could you...”

Dean closed his eyes and groaned as he sucked the pickle back in.

“...like, not do sex noises over it?”

Which, of course, made Dean close his eyes and groan even louder.

Sam shook his head, amused anyway. “Best sandwich ever, huh?”

Dean stopped chewing and opened his eyes. Then he swallowed hard and slowly put the half-eaten sandwich back on the plate, his eyes skating away from Sam’s.

Sam was at a loss. “Dean? You okay?” Shit, was the fever back or something?

Dean brushed some crumbs off the blanket. “Yeah... I’m fine, Sam. And thank you,” he looked up and smiled tiredly. “It’s a great sandwich, dude. The best.”

“Uh...you’re welcome?” Sam was even more lost. Was Dean getting emo and grateful over a _sandwich_? Granted it was a really good sandwich, and Sam had even lathered the cheese with the perfect combination of mustard and mayo he knew Dean liked, but—

“I’ve been giving you a hard time, Sammy. And I’m a shitty sick person.”

Sam didn’t say anything and Dean looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“What? They weren’t questions.” Sam smiled as Dean made a show of backhanding him. He sobered quickly and studied Dean’s profile – Dean always got serious side by side. “But it’s okay, man. I know things haven’t been easy since..."

“Since I fell down the rabbit hole and came back all turned around, you mean?”

“Well, yeah.”

Sam held his breath when Dean reached over and put his hand just above Sam’s left knee through the blanket. Neither of them said anything for a moment or two while Dean rubbed his thumb back and forth on the soft material. Sam knew they were both staring at it, waiting for some kind of dam to break.

“It’s not supposed to be me. For you, Sam. It never was. No matter how it was between us before...before Jess. Or how it got after.”

“I know.”

Dean’s head came up sharply at that. Sam put his hand over the warm one on his leg, and then put everything he had into what he said next, holding Dean’s gaze.

“But it is, Dean. It just… _is_.” He squeezed the fingers under his. “I loved Jess, you know I did.” He felt the flinch at her name and held on. “After you and me, and then all that shit with Dad, I grabbed on like she was a lifeboat on the Titanic, you know? My one shot at sanity and normal.” A muscle jumped in Dean’s jaw, and Sam knew it was a now or never kind of deal. “But it was a half-life, Dean. Me trying hard to wear the clothes, eat the cookies, laugh at the jokes, and forget what I knew.” Sam took a deep breath. “I lied, Dean. Every damn day with every breath I took. And I know people do that. But not about fucking _everything_ , man...”

“And yeah, I could’ve had that half-life, been happy with it, maybe. Who the hell knows? But it doesn’t matter because I didn’t get to have it, Dean. And you don’t get to give it back to me, you idiot. And you know what? I’m okay with that now. Because despite all the crap and horror out there, all that we don’t have because of who we are and what we do, I don’t have a half-life anymore. Not with you. I get to wake up every day next to someone who knows me every which way there is. And I don’t care how messed up it is that that someone is you, Dean. I don’t. You _are_ it for me, so just...just quit being a sentimental asshat over stuff that isn’t fucking real, okay?”

Sam didn’t even realize how loud his voice had gotten until he stopped. He relaxed his grip on Dean’s hand as he got his breathing under control. He tried not to let it mean anything when Dean immediately took his hand away.

Shit. They were back to side by side and not looking at each other again. The silence grew and Sam opened his mouth to take it all back, to ask Dean—

“Did you just call me a sentimental asshat?”

Sam glanced across, but Dean had asked his question to the TV. “Uh...yes.”

“And what, the love of your life?”

“God no! I...shit. Maybe.”

“Huh.”

“Look, Dean. Can we just—"

And then Dean was on him, in his lap and in his face, kissing the words right out of him.

“Sammy...” Dean rocked his hips forward, took hold of Sam’s face and tilted it just so. “Fucking missed you...missed this.”

Sam groaned as Dean kissed and bit his way down Sam’s neck. He got his own hands under the back of Dean’s t-shirt and spread them out over all that warm, fever-free skin and breathed deep as he pulled Dean further in.

“I was...right here, asshole.”

Dean sat back suddenly. “Don’t you mean asshat?”

“I think I mean dick actually,” said Sam, smiling up at him.

“You only...” Dean rocked his hips down, very deliberately. “...had to ask, Sammy.” And then he leaned back in, opened his mouth, and Sam closed his eyes and tried not to whimper as Dean’s tongue found his and danced with it.

Minutes passed, Sam couldn’t really tell. They were both hard, rubbing up against each other through the thin barrier of Dean’s sweats and the not so thin one of Sam’s jeans. But this was about much more than getting off, a thought confirmed when Dean slowed the kissing right down and finally broke off to lean his forehead against Sam’s. They were both breathing heavily.

“I will always be sorry about Jess. You know that, right?”

Dean said it with his eyes open, but Sam couldn’t focus that close. So he shut his own and focused on the calloused thumbs holding him in place.

“Me too,” he whispered.

Dean nodded. Once, and Sam knew they were nearly there. Especially when Dean ground his hips back down and let a long, slow smile out. “’M feeling better, Sammy. Much, much better."

“Yeah? You sure?” Sam moved his hands down to Dean’s ass and squeezed, God he loved Dean like this. Like James Dean had a wet dream and woke up horny.

“Uh-huh. Fucking positive. Wanna do something.”

“We could fish, if you like.”

Dean stopped moving and Sam bit the inside of his cheek at the look he got.

“Fish?”

“Uh-huh,” Sam started smiling as he slipped his hands under Dean’s sweats and grabbed as much ass as he could. “We have all that lovely bait in the fridge.”

Dean appeared to consider it. “Hmm...fuck or fish? Think I’ll let you decide, Hemingway.”

Dean’s hands unpopped the first button on Sam’s fly just as his mouth found Sam’s neck again, and Sam guessed he would go to his death a virgin fisherman.

 

They left that evening. Sex gave Sam as much of an excuse to catch up on sleep as his brother, but by late afternoon Dean was up, dressed, packed, and throwing spoons at Sam’s head while he dozed. One of the side-effects of Dean on cold medication when he was over the worst, was that it never made him drowsy, no matter the dosage or brand. Instead he got antsy and tended to prowl around looking for trouble. Or in this case, pie. Sam had a feeling that if they didn’t get back on the road, Dean was going to trap him in the kitchen and go caveman on Sam’s ass until he actually baked one.

Sam found a spray of something ancient and vaguely lavenderish in one of the kitchen cupboards and let loose directly on the sheets and blankets once he’d straightened them. He felt guilty for faking the cleanliness like that but it was the best he could do at short notice. Dean threw a yellowing Reader’s Digest at him and threatened to steal the apron and tie him up in it.

They had to get the key back to Abe before they left, so they set off along the cliff path with Dean still clearing his throat occasionally but refusing to give up describing the best pie he’d ever had in a diner outside of Baton Rouge.

Sam turned to look at him, already smiling at the way Dean’s hands were illustrating the mountain of cream it had arrived with.

“What?” Dean looked a little self-conscious now that Sam had stopped walking.

What indeed? Dean’s hands were moving through the air with something other than regret or anger, his eyes were dark-circled but wide and alive again. And the sun setting in the sky behind them was once more washing that face and those cheekbones in the faintest pink and chiseling him to perfection. Sam stood there, looking his fill and letting his breath catch at the sheer fucking _beauty_ of what he still had...

So this time he did it. Just stepped up, framed Dean’s face in his hands, and kissed the shit out of him.

Dean took a moment to open his eyes when Sam was done. “Did you just...?” He gestured vaguely at them, and then down at the grass on the cliff top.

“Yes.”

“Because of the...?”

This time Sam assumed the gesture meant the sunset out at sea.

“Yes.”

Dean cuffed him. Then grabbed his hand and yanked him forward again.

“Fucking girl.”

But he was smiling.

And he squeezed Sam’s fingers before he let go.

******

 _I want my sun-drenched, wind-swept Ingrid Bergman kiss  
Not in the next life  
I want it in this  
-The Beautiful South ‘Good as Gold’ -_   



End file.
